Too Deep and Too Wide
by Caliessi
Summary: In which Fred continues to keep a lid on things


_No-one heard the first shot, except for Morse and the man who fired the gun, as the former chased the latter in lone pursuit down a grimy back alley. Morse hadn't any time to react when his quarry turned on his heels and fired. One shot, and then a second for good measure. It was a blur then as Endeavour fell, as the follow-up bullet made contact with his body. He glanced up for a second to see his assailant disappear into the darkness before sinking against the wall in a faint, his eyes drifting closed to the night._

 _It was Strange who arrived on the scene first, the second shot guiding him to Morse's side as he closed the gap between them. Out of breath, almost out of hope, he felt for a pulse, and called out: "Man down, here! Hurry up for Christ's sake!"_

When Fred Thursday returns to the hospital the following day, his head is thick from lack of sleep. He's tried all night to erase the image of Morse in pain and anguish, slumped against that filthy wall. He's told himself a dozen times that the scene had looked much worse than it was, that Morse is young and fit, but it didn't help him - or poor Win - get any rest. The thought of Endeavour being targeted, hurt, the sight of his blood, was somehow too much to bear. Now, a few hours later, Fred's voice sounds steady enough to the nurse who takes him through to the side ward, but he's keeping a tight rein on his emotions as he asks her, prepared for an unexpected development: "How is he?"

"Well... He may not feel like it now, but he's a very lucky boy. Could've been a lot worse."

"He'll be all right? No lasting damage?"

"He'll be fine. Now, don't stay too long, okay? A few minutes. He's been in and out of sleep today, so he may well sleep through. It's not strictly visiting hours yet, either." She smiles and winks. "We're doing you a favour."

"Thank you, miss. Much obliged."

Fred finds Endeavour sound asleep, as expected. Caught somewhere between not wishing to disturb him and not wanting to leave, he sits in the chair beside the bed, and patiently waits.

Time ticks away. As the moments pass, the hazy warmth of the late May day seeps under Fred's skin, making him feel dozy. Before he knows it, his eyes are growing heavy and he begins to drift into a much needed nap - until a sudden clatter of bedpans shakes him from his repose, and he comes to to find Morse still sleeping deeply.

 _He could have been sleeping more deeply than this, slipping further into the shadows, lost..._

Fred clears his head of such things, and moves his chair a little closer to the bed. Morse's face looks paler than usual against the pillow. He looks so young lying there, so vulnerable. Thursday feels the helplessness and guilt rising like a tightness in his throat. After all these years in the force, he realises he is the one who is lost.

Endeavour Morse. The name had been forever and indelibly inked onto Fred's consciousness from the word go. The very first moment he'd laid eyes on him, he'd thought him beautiful. Stupid, wild thought, when he came to dwell on it, that he could find another man so, but there it was: one of those momentary lapses that catch you off guard and set the world askew.

As time went on, the feeling of closeness grew. Perhaps it was due to the intensity of work, the long hours; perhaps it was the vulnerability of the lad, the way in which he tugged at every protective string in Fred's heart. Perhaps... Fred didn't spend time giving thought to the workings of the matter. All he could bear to do was put up with it, put on a poker face to hide the ridiculous excitement in his belly whenever Endeavour came to the house, and when they spent time alone in the pub. Even the silly 'guess the sandwich' game they played delighted him in a way his straight face belied. Keeping a lid on it was a day's work in itself.

And Fred was old enough and wise enough to know he had to keep on doing that for as long as was necessary - for Endeavour's sake, as much as for himself and his family.

Once or twice, it had to be said, he'd almost fallen: times when Endeavour had been far too near... too endearingly bashful... too much. But someone or something had always cropped up. Saved by the bell, the knock, the call. Normal service resumed.

And Fred knew deep down that Morse just needed a paternal friend, a father figure, and that he had chosen him, consciously or unconsciously, for that role. He could find some comfort in that, at least, and in the knowledge that it was a sacrifice of sorts, a love that runs too deep and too wide to frame.

Fred isn't too sure what it is he's feeling now, as he sits by the bed of the extraordinary young man he's come to know, to need. Whatever it is, he has to optimise each and every corner of his well-rehearsed restraint not to fall upon the sheets and beg Endeavour to wake up.

Time continues to tick slowly by, way past the promised 'few minutes'. Grateful that the nurse hasn't yet tried to hint he's outstayed his welcome, and with no intention of leaving just yet, Fred gets up to stretch his legs and wonders about getting a cup of something hot to tide him over.

And, Sod's Law, it's always when you turn your back...

A strange sound gets his attention at first, like someone coming back to life, then: "Sir-?"

As Fred turns round to find a pair of sleep-hazed eyes gazing at him, the desire to take Morse in his arms is, for a moment, far too much to take. He quickly waves away the notion - Keep a lid on, Fred - and, when he speaks, his low voice is steady and without emotion. "What time d'you call this, then, eh, Morse? Any idea how long I've been sitting about here like a lemon, waiting for you to get back to the land of the living?"

As Endeavour takes a moment to adjust to wakefulness, his sweet confusion melts Fred's resolve. "How're you feeling?" he asks him, his voice softer. "You gave - all of us - quite a scare, Morse."

"I... I gave myself quite a scare."

"Well, quite."

"Apparently I've been lucky. "

"Yes. This time round... What were you thinking? Going down there solo?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't have to prove anything to me, y' know."

"I... I just wanted to get him."

"Well, he's been got. Nabbed him half a mile down the road. He won't be doing any more damage for a while, I shouldn't think-"

As he takes his place beside the bed, Fred tries not to notice the tear running down Endeavour's cheek, just as he tries not to notice his own urge to stroke it away. "Come on now, no need for that," he says, briskly but kindly. "You're out of sorts, that's all. Understandable under the circumstances. Shock of it. Can bring a man down. You'll be right as rain in no time. Shall I bring you something tomorrow? Anything spring to mind? Paper? Crossword?" He feels for his pipe while he talks, looking anywhere but directly at Endeavour and his tear stained cheeks. "We'll have you at our place when they let you out. Let Win spoil you. A few home comforts. Do you the world of good. All right?"

"All right."

"Good. That's settled."

Fred can feel an earnest gaze on him as he gets out his pipe, seeking him out, silently urging him to meet it with his own. He hesitates, and then allows himself the luxury of looking. He finds himself lost a second time that day, lost in the depths of Endeavour's eyes. This time, he doesn't look away.

"I'm sorry, sir."

Fred hesitates again, just for a moment, before he reaches for Endeavour's hand. He pats it gently, allowing himself just a few seconds of contact before pulling away, and is surprisingly unashamed to find his own hand is trembling. "You've nothing to be sorry about, Endeavour," he says. "Nothing at all."


End file.
